Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: Volume One
by L. Dora Willows
Summary: Newt Scamander's new research project takes him and his assistant to America, where amidst the cultural changes of the Harlem Renaissance they come upon societies where Wizarding and Muggle culture are not so distinct as in Britain, and as a result the magical beasts are not as secluded, nor as shy, as back home. This project is inspired by the recent movie news, and is a W.I.P.


Quentin Kaufman sighed, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as he hoisted two briefcases into the air and shuffled down uneven stone steps, through the front garden, and past the wooden gate. Although the weather had already begun to cool with September's arrival, he found himself quite overheated after hours of admittedly unrewarding sales attempts. "That's the fifth empty house this block," he muttered, turning the street corner and stepping gladly into the shade of the large trees that lined the next block. "What are these people doing that's so exciting it keeps them from their tellies all blasted afternoon?" He huffed in indignation and exhaustion as he hobbled down the block. "No cars in half these driveways, neither," he noted, not even bothering to knock on the doors of houses with their curtains drawn and their windows closed. Folks would surely have them open for the breeze if they were home; it had been a stifling and stuffy summer. Quentin would have quit long before the seventeenth slammed door, the thirtieth shadowless window, the dozens of empty driveways, if not for the fact that he hadn't made a single sale that day. With his boss on his case, his daughter heading for university in a week's time, and his wife in need of new trainers for her morning jobs, he had to bring in more than the few pence he'd gathered by selling a spinning top to a young girl that morning … and then traded back for an ice cream cone she was selling from a cooler next to her brother's lemonade stand. "One more block," Quentin promised himself, "I just need one good sale on this one block, and then I'm going home." But no screen doors on this block were propped, either, and Quentin was just about to give up for good, to resign himself to a life of trainerless wives and uneducated children when he saw it - a house, just barely visible through the thicket of trees that bordered Glasbury Park, a house with its windows thrown wide open, bright yellow curtains waving in the breeze, and the ultimate jackpot: two young boys playing noisily with a trainset at the feet of their reading parents. Quentin grimaced in determination, straightened his shoulders, and began the trek up to the cottage.

After several more minutes of huffing and puffing, he reached the front door. It smiled down at him, a warm cherry red, and through it he could hear the sharp whistle of a tea kettle. Spit flew into hands, hands ran through hair, subtle musk dabbed behind ears, and Quentin Kaufman was ready. He knocked, sharply, thrice as was his custom, in equal rhythm, always short, firm knocks of confidence and assertion. The door flew open to reveal two wide-eyed children in over-sized jumpers, each emblazoned with the letter "L." Big blue eyes staring up at him, the taller one – for surely twins were never perfectly identical, and this one must've been taller by a few hairs; looked right healthier too, now that Quentin came to think of it – the taller one hollered in one long gasp, "MUM! SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR!" Not to be out-done, the smaller by two-hairs one added, in between gulps of air, "a man – in – a – funny – suit," muttering under his breath, "he's all sweaty, too." "Oi!" exclaimed Quentin, but before he could reprimand this rudeness further, he found a third pair of wide blue eyes looking up at him. "Hello," said a soft, musical voice, looking him over, "may I help you?"

Quentin blinked rapidly, "Er, yes, hello, miss, is your husband at home?" The woman's face twitched slightly, but she obliged his request. "Rolf?" she called, "a man's here to see you, well, us, I suppose. He's at the door right now." A loud tinkling of glass, a rustling of pages, and hotly-sworn oaths accompanied a tall, lanky man to the front door. "Hello there," he said, wiping his glasses on his - was that a bathrobe he was wearing? - "Scamander-Lovegood household. What's your day?"

"P-p-pardon?" asked Quentin. "Ah! Yes! My day. Well, sir, if you would do me the kindness of opening your home to me for mere minutes, I can show you an assortment of baubles perfect for home decoration, conversation pieces, and of course, gifts!" he added, corners of his mouth sailing upwards on command as he peered down at the twins. "These tykes got a birthday coming up?"

The tykes' eyes went squinty as they glared up at him and growled in unison, "No." before flouncing away, back to their trainset. "Lorcan, Lysander, don't be rude," said the woman firmly, yet gently. "I'm sorry… what did you say your name was? I'm Luna Lovegood, and this is my husband, Rolf." "Quentin. Kaufman," said Quentin, hurrying to shake their hands. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kaufman," continued Ms. Lovegood, "age is a sensitive subject today. Why, it's a shame that something as simple as a birthday could bring such joy one day a year and such… resentment… another." "Well, that's quite all right," said Quentin. He feared he was losing them, as Mr. Scamander looked at him expectantly, impatiently, most likely eager to get back to the scone, tea, and tome Quentin spied upon an overstuffed armchair. He peered past the couple's shoulders, hopeful to get a glimpse of some clue, some in that could assure him a sale today. As his eyes finally fell upon a series of glass jars lining the mantle, he knew he had found his selling point.

"That's quite a collection you have there," he said, gesturing to the strange shapes suspended within each container. "Why, just last week I came across the oddest little creature in a shop." He opened one briefcase, digging past trading cards and cosmetic kits, knitted hats and strange foreign coins until his rummaging produced a long, worn stone. "Some sort of insect, I reckon," he said, shrugging and handing the fossil over to Mr. Scamander for inspection. After a few moments of silence, the man looked up, a bemused smile on his face. "Do come in, Mr. Kaufman," he said, passing the stone to his wife, who also smiled, and beckoned Quentin Kaufman in past the strange, whirring clocks, odd candles suspended by invisible wires, and overgrown plants that lined their hallway, shutting the deep red door behind her with a light click.

"Wait here, please," said Mr. Scamander politely, as he and his wife strode into the kitchen. Quentin set down his briefcases and, stepping over the boys playing with their trains on the floor, took stock of the room. A small dog with what seemed to be a broken tail slept near the back door, above him was a family portrait and – surely it was a trick of the eye, or one of those new video frames… it couldn't be… His eyes moved on, and he spotted another hallway. Perhaps it led to a bathroom where he could splash some cooling water on his face, freshen up a bit before he closed the sale. He disappeared through the door, neither Lorcan nor Lysander paying him any mind.

Back in the kitchen, Luna and Rolf discussed their predicament. "Have you any Muggle money?" asked Luna, "Rolf, I'm fairly sure that's a Bowtruckle fossil, and you know what our latest research has to show about those. Suppose some unsuspecting collector bought it, and got bit right on the nose? Suppose Mr. Kaufman drops it, the stone cracks, and the Bowtruckle kindly relieves him of his eyesight? The poor man!" Rolf, though not too bothered by the prospect of the highly disagreeable salesman getting a nip or two on the nose, was not cruel enough to risk the man real injury. "You're right, Luna, love," he said, rooting around in the kitchen junk drawer and producing a small fistful of coins. The two returned to their living room the moment Quentin Kaufman's knees collapsed, his hands releasing the fossil to fly to his lips, open wide in shock.


End file.
